Bivalve mollusks are my jam!

Been a while since my last post...I haven't observed or obsessed about anything terrible or ridiculous enough to upset my perfectly balanced sensibilities and drive me to write a post during these past few weeks. That was a sentence! I need an editor.

Autumn, or Fall, or Herfst in Dutch (because the Dutch are awesome!), has arrived on the calendar, but not in the air - but who am I to complain? While I'm not a fan of the heat lingering too long, it will be negative eight thousand in a few weeks, so here's to the balmy days while they're still upon us.

See? Perfectly balanced outlook, even when the weather is annoyingly weird.

OMG I will not post about the weather. Sorry. Let's get back to me, and more specifically, my dinner, that's currently breaking down in my belly. Mmm..digestion.

I bought frozen scallops a few weeks ago, put them in the freezer when I got home, and forgot about them - until this afternoon. I was excited to discover the bag, jammed up next to a mysterious looking foil pouch. You should always ignore any unfamiliar foil pouches in your freezer - no good can come of them.

After a quick defrost in cold water, I noticed the tendons had already been trimmed. I guess I got fancy at the store, and I don't even remember. Excellent.

I steamed up some fine green beans - and by fine, I mean the thin stringy ones, not those other sexy beans - and set them aside. Just before I'm ready to serve them, I throw them in a skillet with hot olive oil, garlic, and salt. Sometimes I toss in some soy sauce for a little extra umami, but not tonight, because I forgot.

In my most favorite skillet of all, I heated a tablespoon each of butter and olive oil (by the way, it's for another post, but California olive oil is my new favorite - yea you heard me, Italy). I patted the little bivalvey guys dry, salt and peppered them a bit, and gently (gently) slid them into the sizzling pan. Three minutes, flip, then 2 minutes. Nicely browned. I deglazed the pan with a shot of white wine, and positioned the scallops pretty next to the green beans on mine and kiddo's plates. Between the two of us, we polished off almost a pound of scallops.

Also, again fuck you Rachel Ray, this dinner took me less than15 minutes and it was better than any half baked bullshit you ever made in your fug-ass tv kitchen. Fucking idiot. 

Every time I have scallops, I remember how much I love them, and remind myself to buy them more often. And then I don't - or I do, and forget that I have. The madness ends here. Scallops all the days!

Scribbles and bricks

Today a Facebook friend posted about giving herself a timeout to avoid saying something harsh to her kiddo. I applaud this effort in self monitoring.  It got me thinking about my childhood and my parents, and their impact my own parenting.

In my case, the methods might differ, but the dramatic underpinning is well ingrained.

I famously didn't eat much as a child, and my intake was a constant worry for them. They pleaded, bargained, and threatened at nearly every meal. One night, my dad was at the end of his rope. He said, "If you don't eat what's in your dish, I'm going to pour it down your pants." This made me laugh out loud. Wrong move. Next thing I know, I'm slung over his arm, the back of my dungarees (cause that's what they called 'em then) were pulled back and a full bowl of warm rice, or possibly a savory risotto, slid slowly down my behind.

Of course, this ticked my mom off, because guess who's in the bathroom with me shaking rice out of my Wonder Woman Underoos? I remember diced carrots in there, too. Yep, risotto.

I haven't poured food down my kid's pants, but it could just be because he's a good eater. I'm not sure what I'd do if he didn't eat well. It would probably stress me out a lot. My husband can be picky, and I've had to hold back the temptation to tip his plate over his head when he doesn't finish it clean. Realistically, I couldn't manage to pour it down the back of his pants, so throwing the plate at him and promptly running away would be my best strategy. Then I would cry...sobs....about all my cooking effort, about his stupid stunted palate, and he'd feel bad for not eating. He would admit he had it coming. I win. That's how drama works!

See mom and pop? You did good! Lesson learned: feeble, non-enthusastic eaters suck and should be punished both physically and emotionally.

One afternoon, not too long after he painted the living room, my dad discovered fresh scribbles on the  wall. It wasn't me - I was well past wall-scribbling age at that point. One of my little brothers committed this heinous act. I remember some yelling, but what really sticks out is our assigned task that day: we were directed to locate every pen, pencil, marker and crayon in the house. Every room was checked. Every drawer, every shelf. When we'd collected about half a shoebox worth, he was satisfied and he threw the colorful treasure in the garbage - not the wastebasket - oh no - they went straight into the outside trash bin, ready for collection. No one would write anything, anywhere, anymore, dammit!

We eventually owned writing utensils once more, but no one ever marked the walls again.
Something about that day imprinted in my genetic code. My kid has never written on the walls...I don't think it has even crossed his mind. For a kid, he's taken pretty good care of his pens, pencils and crayons.

It sounds like I have a perfect child. Of course we know I don't. He leaves his underwear on the sofa. When this happens, I point it out and make the saddest, most hurt face I can muster. Underwear? On the sofa? How could you? This sad mommy face elicits swift action.

I've stepped barefoot on a Lego so fricken painfully, I've threatened to throw out every single brick he owns. I won't do that of course. Those little suckers are expensive! Their E-bay resale value is crazy. But that one-time threat, screaming and hopping on one foot, prompted a hurried clean up, and now he just needs a gentle reminder. I still step on them regularly though.

If my dad had the dramatic over-reaction down, my mom was the master of guilt (it's all in the tone).

When I accidentally vacuumed up a Lego, he was distraught. He figured out (with my help) that it's his responsibility to not leave Legos on the floor. Tired mom can't vacuum and be expected to pre-screen the rug for Legos. We're a team here - mommy needs your help, mmkay?
Now, just firing up the vacuum sends him down to the floor in search of runaway bricks.

With a masterful combination of guilt and drama, dispensed in careful doses, I think I might be winning at this marriage and parenting thing!

No?

Hmm. We'll chat more.